What About Being?

I don’t know what you’ll think

but I’m too tired to hide.

I divulge myself and prepare



to repair

and declare,

afraid of the critic’s snare,

each negative a bear trap

clamping itself into an already bruised

and bleeding leg.

Pterodactyl beaks and leafless thorny bushes

in winter;

white expanding windswept vistas

begging snowshoe imprints betrayed

in the gloss of a professional photograph

scorning patients in waiting rooms.

We have rooms for waiting?

What about rooms for being?

Legless teddy bears in piles

on soggy parquet floors

leave no traces through silky

eliminating dawns.

The race begins though

its finish line eludes me,

its existence a mirage I chase.

Visions of miniature treasure chests

filled with treacherous jewels

enter my eastern ear and

slide out the west,

spilling their contents into

a funneled sieve. I clutch

at falling stones before

realizing how insistent

certain realms’ banalities remain.

I work at my bleeding stumpy leg,

wrapping bandages,

hoping to be wrapped someday,

care shown because of

my showings. Exposed,

I am redeemed until

the day of my oblivion.


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